


Treasure Trove

by clearinghouse



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Dancing, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Magic, Possessive Sherlock, Secrets, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 22:30:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8508001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clearinghouse/pseuds/clearinghouse
Summary: Holmes and Watson have developed a very close friendship. Watson fears he will lose that friendship when Holmes discovers the true depth of Watson’s feelings for him. However, Watson is not the only one keeping secrets.





	

The light flickered brilliantly from the evening candles and the modest incense, belying the sheer intensity of the fire within the man whose hands Watson held.

They were dressed in their most formal fashions, Holmes with his black suit and top hat and Watson with khaki clothes and his bowler. They moved together, to the soft music from the gramophone, around the open space of their flat. Most of their movement was in the steps of their feet, and the gentle pulls and pushes of the arms, but Watson’s attention was fixed on the face of his friend. 

The passionate beast inside the gentleman detective was cleverly hidden from sight, swimming underneath the proper and patient smile that Holmes graced the doctor with. Tonight, however, it was impossible for even Watson to miss the depth of those feelings.

But how Watson wished he knew what the true character of those feelings was!

Holmes’s eyebrows flickered up, for only an instant. It was the twitch of suspicion. 

A short, nervous laugh came out of Watson. “I should tell you, I’ve been looking forward to this little delight all day,” he said. 

“You’ll not distract me,” Holmes declared boldly. His suspicion turned into something decidedly more sinister, and more thrilling. “Data, I need data,” he whispered as he pulled close to Watson, and gripped his wrist tightly. 

The doctor inside of Watson quickly came to the conclusion that his friend’s hot fingers were feeling his pulse. The breath that passed his neck as Holmes held him in their dance was fire, as of an ancient dragon of lore. So close to the beast, the doctor was helpless to the noble creature.

Holmes flowed back with serpentine grace, and together they swept the sweet-smelling air around them as they continued to move in rhythm. 

The electricity of the chase swam through from doctor’s fingertips to his core, though this was not a crime scene. For once, he was not among the chasers, but the chased. The soothing smoke of the incense subtly camouflaged the world around them.

The practiced touch at Watson’s shoulder stroked a path up his neck, to tickle the bottom of his ear, and though it made Watson turn a trifle red, Holmes closed his eyes and breathed in, like a beast filling his belly with the power of the spirit of the world itself. 

Watson saw, in the crisply simple black attire and beatific expression of the man before him, the incredible strength that so often led them into certain danger. Every time, Holmes met that danger squarely and with obsessiveness. After all, the bohemian soul was never content to idle away its time in routine. Except, miraculously, for the certainly unremarkable routines that Holmes shared with his average-witted roommate.

Holmes’s eyes opened sharply, fierce with perception.

Watson gasped slightly, taken by surprise, though there was nothing to be surprised at. Perhaps the sheer force of his friend’s gaze was simply not something that one could ever become accustomed to.

Their endless dance continued. Black-clothed arms waved with the melody of the music, as Holmes led the way for his friend. “What do you see?” Holmes said at last.

“What do I see?” Watson blinked at the question. “I see someone who has failed to give justice to his own talents for dancing.”

“Your attempts to dissuade me from my advance are pleasing enough, Watson, but they are not my target.” Holmes leaned closer, and there was no escape left. The treasure that this clever man hoarded was not in gold, but in the realm of the intellect, and it was a fool who thought that a beast could be parted from that which was desired to be possessed. “What do you see when you behold me?”

“I see Sherlock Holmes,” Watson answered. 

“Better,” the detective conceded, but he did not retreat, and Watson noticed that his own breathing had become shallow.

Arms twisted, and Watson found himself straight across from Holmes, his right hand in his partner’s left, circling one another. Watson had never danced in a manner such as this before, and yet no difficulties arose as the warm magic of the night coursed through their bodies and their hearts. 

Holmes was the most admirable man that Watson had ever had the privilege to know, and that was evident in the brilliant way that Holmes, in his ruthlessness, was deliberately filling Watson with a passionate feelings of loyalty with nothing more than the certainty of his grasp and his gaze. 

To be this man’s closest friend was the greatest of privileges. If he could have managed words, Watson would have vowed to be by Holmes’s otherwise lonely side indefinitely. But such loyalty did not exist merely because Watson was impressed by Holmes. He cared about him. It hurt Watson to see Holmes in pain, and it filled him with joy on those lovely occasions when Holmes clapped and jumped in his eccentrically pleased way. To be physically and emotionally with Holmes, even for such simple activities as dancing, made Watson very happy.

His feelings for Holmes sometimes masqueraded as something akin to a boy’s fantasy, like the kind he often saw in victims or perpetrators of crimes of romance. Indeed, his passion was often inappropriately hot and consuming in that way, but the power of such heat was incomparable to the sweet and absolute love that was summoned in Watson’s being whenever Holmes comforted him with casual praise or moved him with such unpredictability and generosity toward others.

Though Watson knew that Holmes was too kind to ever entirely abandon him, Watson did sometimes wonder what that perfectly capable mind thought of this simple doctor turned veteran turned writer. He longed to be among the most frequent subjects of Holmes’s thoughts, but in his ignorance he could not discern if Holmes’s thoughts had time for such things. How much of their friendship was attributable to convenience, and how much to genuine affection?

“My good man.” Holmes pulled him back to the present, and the sorcery weaved Watson again into Holmes’s power. Their bodies were still now, and the energy of their potential motion was transferred to the low rays of the lights around them that shined through the aromas of the incense. Those lights were a mere fraction of the fire that was seeping through Holmes’s palms into Watson’s two captured hands, and then slowly higher, to Watson’s neck. Holmes’s forehead came very near Watson’s, and there was that clever smile again, the one that promised omniscience of all threats, and of all sins. Watson was being pulled under. Like the intricacies of the greatest mysteries of London, some part of him was coming under the adept possession of one of London’s greatest men.

The next words he spoke were gentle. “What do you see?”

“My dear Holmes,” Watson murmured through his daze. “You’re a handsome man.”

“Ha, you must be confused,” Holmes whispered with completely sincere modesty. The fingers at Watson’s neck were caressing. “Nonetheless, my friend, how very kind of you.”

Yet all the kindness and loyalty that Watson could ever be accused of would not make him need Holmes any less. Eternity was a beautiful prospect, if Watson would always have this person to share it with, if he could only make Holmes feel so content, too. Watson would give Holmes all the affection he had to give, and hold him with pride. If only Holmes could know that he was Watson’s only world, and Watson’s only future. 

Holmes looked so sympathetic, then. “What do you see?”

Watson thought carefully. His emotions were running like wild children, and his self-control was slipping, but the vision was clear to see. The hands on his neck were comforting and reassuring. “I think,” Watson swallowed, “I see the future, Holmes.”

Holmes brought Watson’s head to his bosom, much too close for propriety, and was a quiet beacon of gentlemanly and empathetic patience as the doctor cried silently, overwhelmed by the deceptively tranquil sounds of the gramophone and by the arcane charms of the wild creature whom he loved best.

**

They’d shared this unusual relationship for a while now. 

Watson didn’t know if Holmes perceived it in the same way, but at the very least it seemed to Watson an atypical and uncertain state of affairs.

In a spiritual sense, he and Holmes were closer than brothers, almost as close as any two people could be. What had started as a simple convenient living arrangement had become the most meaningful friendship of Watson’s life. Surely Watson wasn’t mistaken that he was important to Holmes as well.

They shared a close friendship, then, the kind that allowed for continuous cohabitation, companionable dinners, and the occasional platonic dance. Well, that was a wondrous thing.

Watson had mixed feelings when he considered how nothing taboo could ever reasonably come of such a friendship. Although Holmes frequently partook of certain recreational habits which tended to earn reprimands from Watson, passion was not one of them. Unless, of course, Watson’s understanding was wrong, which was certainly possible.

But none of this would help him right now. 

The body of his dearest friend was warm underneath his hand, turned to face away as he slept. In their full sleepwear, under the heavy blanket of Watson’s bed, they were all but holding one another. Only a few inches separated back from breast. It wasn’t lost on Watson the trust that Holmes had endowed in him, or else Holmes was simply too absent-minded in his sleepiness to care that he’d left himself so fully unguarded in this way. Watson watched the slumbering rise of the man’s shoulders, and the reflection of the morning light off the strong black of his hair.

If only Watson could know what Holmes thought of all this.

It had seemed nothing extraordinary when they had retired together the night before. Holmes had stubbornly insisted on following Watson to his room. They’d both prepared for bed, but had both desired to keep talking, and it had been a cold evening. So, one thing led to the next, until they were under the covers with one another and Holmes was listening to Watson ramble about some business of the day. 

There was nothing obscene about this. They were simply two friends sharing a bed. Even in the stark brightness of the early day, so much clearer than the romantic dream of last night, Holmes’s company was a proper treasure, particularly, Watson thought with a small smirk, when he was sharing a full night’s rest with Watson instead of keeping them both from it for the sake of a case.

Yet Watson’s smirk fell, when he thought about how much he wanted to pull Holmes closer. He didn’t have to kiss Holmes’s temple. He didn’t need to hold Holmes’s hand. He would even abstain from confessing the depth of his feelings, if only he could just hug the man. Watson sighed to himself. Rationally, he knew that Holmes was not a puppy to be cuddled, and yet his emotions persisted in that fantasy. Feeling hopeless, the forlorn doctor averted his gaze from his bedmate and pulled his hand away. 

He missed his friend’s warmth already.

“Mm… Watson?” Holmes mumbled then, and stretched lazily. Half-asleep, he groped behind him, until he discovered Watson’s retreating hand, and brought it to return to him. “Stay your hand, it’s early yet,” he dictated lazily, and did not bother to rise or to open his eyes.

Watson was a little confused, a trifle humiliated, and highly amused in a fond way. He obeyed Holmes readily. It occurred to him at that moment that he himself was the puppy, a faithful but rather too-cuddly companion.

Suddenly Holmes rolled over, onto his back, and held Watson’s hand clasped to his chest as he opened his eyes to look for clues in the ceiling. “Ah, I haven’t forgotten my investigation.” The sharpness of the detective was awake now. “The future, you said? The future is usually so hard to see, my dear friend, often impossible,” he declared solemnly.

Startled, Watson only nodded stupidly. He knew to what Holmes was referring, but frankly he would have been embarrassed to refer to the silliness he’d said during their small dance just hours ago. 

Holmes’s eyes darted to him. “Yet this,” he said with weight, shaking Watson by the wrist, “is not hard to see. On the contrary, what we have is entirely too obvious to discern.” Holmes rolled over one more time, onto Watson’s stomach, embracing him about his middle, and kissed him lightly on the cheek. 

The world had stopped turning. In an instant, heaven and earth had become one. Holmes was upon him, so close that Watson could feel that fiery breath against his own too-susceptible skin. This was simultaneously so wonderful and so strange that Watson could only chortle awkwardly. “H-Holmes?”

The clever detective looked over Watson. The corner of his lip twitched curiously, betraying the whimsical smirk of brilliance that was one of the detective’s many charming quirks. Holmes was making mental notes of him. “Yes, that might do,” he murmured mysteriously. “I see it now, the little secret that you have kept from me, ah ha!” Immediately Holmes removed himself from the bed. “By Jove, Watson! I have seen through your secret! But you really should have told me yourself.”

An anxious shiver of terror gripped Watson’s soul. 

Holmes hardly seemed moved, but Watson didn’t question that Holmes, who was so abundant in platonic emotions, would not have any emotions of the other kind. Holmes was indeed a brilliant man, and Watson had never been skilled in the art of deception, but was Watson so obvious? Had Holmes finally seen his less proper emotions? Was their friendship in jeopardy? Such a thought was too frightening to explore.

“Holmes.” Watson could hardly speak. “I am so sorry.”

“Do not fret,” Holmes cut in casually. “After all, I am not so heartless as to deny a friend his needs. Of that, let me assure you.” And with nothing more but a polite tip of his head in parting, Holmes left the room.

What did Holmes just say? Not deny a friend his needs?

That was consistent with the generous side of Holmes’s character that Watson had sometimes been fortunate enough to witness, but a simple rejection might have been easier for the helplessly lovesick doctor to live with. He loathed to be burdensome to Holmes, his best and kindest friend.

Full of uncertainty and shame, Watson slouched and wondered what Holmes could possibly be thinking of him right now. In better times, his dream had been to make Holmes feel happy and loved, but now he wished only that he might salvage the damage that his feelings had done to his relationship with this dear man.

**

It was only after dressing, bathing, and severe inner character building that Watson went to the living room to talk things over with Holmes, or read his morning paper, whichever seemed most appropriate. Holmes was by the window, also fully dressed and in one of his contemplative stances, leaving him unaware of the world.

Though he was terrified, Watson saw that Holmes was in this aloof state, and decided that he would stay nearby in silence, and talk with Holmes when Holmes was ready. Satisfied with this excuse to peacefully share Holmes’s company, he took his paper and sat on the couch opposite Holmes.

With that motion, Holmes was activated. He stood up, sat next to Watson, and snatched his paper away. “If you would be so kind as to allow my interruption?”

“Ah?” It was difficult for Watson to be anxious when Holmes was so disarmingly forthright and immature. “Y-Yes, of course.” 

“Good.” Holmes tossed the paper behind himself, and adopted an entirely serious posture with one hand in his lap and one on the top curve of the sofa. “Now, it seems I have been negligent in our mutual friendship, and have failed you as your close friend.”

“What?” Watson sat back. “Heavens, no. Never!”

“Watson, please.” Holmes, as usual, was too hot on the trail of his own line of thinking to allow himself to be derailed. “That you need more from me, I have perceived, both recently and less recently. I deduce that when we spend time together, specifically in activities that involve no one else but us, you are at the same time satisfied and disappointed with me. It is not my company that offends you, I gather, but a haunting uncertainty. The most likely possibility is that the strength of our bond, while clear to me, is less clear to you, which is reasonable. This uncertain state of affairs is causing you distress. Henceforth I intend to constantly remind you of the strength of our friendship.”

“Wait! Wait, I’m never disappointed in you, Holmes.” For all his anxiety, Watson had to communicate with all his spirit that he never thought poorly of Holmes.

“How kind of you,” Holmes nodded politely, as if expecting the kindness, and resumed. “I shall say this straightforwardly, but I will repeat it as many times as you like, if you desire.” His hands gripped Watson’s tightly. “I consider you to be my closest confidante, and the only person with whom I immensely enjoy myself. Your sweet manner delights me, and your opinions on even the most trifling topics fascinate me to no end. I trust you completely, and in fact I would be lost if I did not have you to rely upon. Summarily, I promise to never part from your companionship when it is in my power to remain.”

That was all Holmes had to say. Yet Watson was not relieved to discover that his secret was untouched. Here was Holmes, affirming his own loyal feelings for Watson, more eloquently and effusively than Watson deserved. Watson’s immeasurable appreciation was too wholly matched by his great shame. 

To hear the extent of Holmes’s consideration for him made him feel so many things for his friend. Among those feelings was fondness for Holmes, a warm and very inopportune arousal due to Holmes’s sweet words, and guilt for not being a better friend. Watson had to grow up and let his childish desires go. They didn’t need physical intimacy to love each other.

For his genteel and trusting Holmes, Watson had to never let himself entertain crude fantasies about pleasuring his companion. That would surely only diminish this divinely beautiful friendship. They were gentlemen, and had to be pure gentlemen.

Holmes was aghast. “What… could I have missed?” 

Watson froze. Somehow, he’d given himself away again.

Hastily, in an abrupt panic, Holmes brought his fingers to Watson’s face, and examined him in close detail. His searching eyes flickered here and there.

“Holmes—?”

With one finger to his lips, the brilliant man hushed Watson, and continued the investigation. He swiftly scoured every detail of Watson’s expression and body with more intensity and focus than ever before, as if the fate of the world depended upon his success.

Such urgency likely aided him in his search, because it brought out all Watson’s insecurities. Yet he stayed motionless for Holmes’s investigation, letting Holmes do what ever he wished, as always. Ironically, in his time of weakness and vulnerability, Watson longed to have Holmes’s arms around him, to be securely kept in his strong beast’s haven of safety.

Finally, after every part of Watson had been gauged, and two of Holmes’s fingers had rested once more around Watson’s wrist, there was an almost perceptible click from Holmes’s deductive gears. Holmes jerked back abruptly in epiphany. “Oh. I see.”

This was the end. “What? What is it?” Those awful feelings of worry and dread were quickly returning. He’d been spared rejection from Holmes before, but no longer. It was turning out that his secret love was doomed to ruin their friendship.

“Oh.” The calculating man was quietly baffled. He looked about the room, as if seeing for the first time. “I had not perceived it.” Everything minor object took its turn, capturing his rapt attention. Holmes even touched the objects around the couch, and the couch itself, testing all its trivial features. “I had not so much as suspected. But how could I have known?”

“I’m so sorry.” Watson didn’t know what to do. He was a terrible friend. “I swear, nothing has to change between us.”

“Nothing has changed,” Holmes answered dazedly, from within the stupor of deliberation, “except that I have been enlightened.”

“I’m so sorry—”

“Hush, Watson! I have been enlightened! Oh, what a blind fool I have been! Until now, I had not perceived it, your sexual desire for me!” Holmes proclaimed this with all the satisfaction of a mathematician who has solved his thesis. He enthusiastically gestured to a very shocked Watson. “My dear Watson! Must you keep such things to yourself?”

Such peculiar openness was not the character of the disgust that Watson had been expecting. Watson knew he was now undoubtedly red in the face, after Holmes had spoken so freely, but he managed to continue. “Please, go no further, Holmes. I won’t deny what you’ve said, but it need not change anything between us. I know that you don’t care for such things. I know that you could not be interested.”

“Oh, I have no doubt that I would enjoy physical relations with you,” Holmes said effortlessly. “The concern here is that heretofore I had not perceived this need of yours! I had not considered that you could have such feelings, or that I, in this form, could be the object of such feelings. Ha! And I fancy myself a detective.” Thoughtfully, Holmes palmed his own face and considered whatever it was that he was seeing in his mind. “How come have I missed all this?” 

“You… aren’t disgusted by me?”

“What do you mean?” Holmes locked his gaze again on Watson, and furrowed his brow at Watson’s question. “Why should I be disgusted? Ah. Ah!” Holmes laughed. “You couldn’t possibly think yourself unappealing? On the contrary, you are very appealing. But no, I gather there’s something more. You think me fundamentally incapable of enjoying such things. I’ll have you know that I am as capable as any man. I suppose it is true that I do not seek out intimacy as many men do. Well, before today, I had no reason to.” He leaned closer to Watson, who was becoming increasingly nervous. True to his proper nature, he asked permission first. “May I kiss you?”

This innocent and lovely gesture on the part of Holmes excited parts of Watson that nothing of an innocent nature should be exciting. Still, as much as it thoroughly pained him, Watson had to stop Holmes with outstretched palms, because it would have been much more painful to betray his friendship like this. “Holmes, please. You don’t have to accommodate me. It’s fine, really. I know that you don’t really love me back. No harm done. We never need to talk of it again.”

Holmes was perplexed. “What do you mean? The matter of the depth of our mutual love is distinct from this development. We love each other. This, I have long known. It is this other thing that has caught me off guard. So to what do you refer?” When Watson only stared at him silently, struck with disbelief upon hearing Holmes proclaim such affections, Holmes’s brow rose, and he smirked. “Oh, perhaps you are meaning to be chivalrous by caring more for my comfort than your own. That is rather endearing, and also misplaced. I solemnly swear to you that I am entirely selfish person, that I act only on my own desires.” Holmes smiled. “I want to be your lover, the one who shares everything with you.”

This was too much to fathom. Watson had believed for so long that Holmes was too far above him. He felt weak and shaky in every muscle. Could what Holmes said be true?

“Yes,” Holmes said. “If you’ve learned anything from this, Watson, it should be that our trust in each other may not be bounded. Believe me when I say, that in every respect,” he gently kissed Watson’s hand, and turned his dark, blazing eyes of passionate fire upon Watson once more along with his openly loving smile, “I love you.”

Time stood idle for the two of them. This was what it felt like to be an angel, flying high in the heavens, because Watson belonged completely and unreservedly to the person he cherished and admired most in all existence. Life with Holmes had been so incredible before, and with unmovable certainty Watson knew that their future together would be still more wonderful and have no less love.

Holmes was evidently pleased. “Ah, that’s better. I would solve all my puzzles much more quickly if all their conclusions raised your spirits like this.” That Watson had ever earned this brilliant man’s devotion was an absolute miracle. “Now, then! I thank you kindly for your time.” Holmes promptly picked up the fallen newspaper and returned it to Watson. “Do forgive the interruption. You may resume your leisurely reading.”

Watson was stymied. “Ah… yes. Thank you?” 

Holmes nodded magnanimously. 

Though left on a slightly uncertain note, Watson was also relieved. He did need a break, or his overfull heart was apt to burst. He did as Holmes bade him and took to reading his paper with the hope that Holmes would at least stay nearby while Watson recovered from the madness of his own infatuation.

Holmes remained where he was, and turned away slightly, “Hm, intimacy with Watson,” he mused to himself with affectionate interest. Before Watson could so much as respond, Holmes closed his eyes, kicked his legs onto the sofa arm, let his head rest in Watson’s lap, and contemplated.

Watson bit his quivering lip, and closed his own trembling eyes, though he could not still the fluttering heat of love that was consuming him and making him shake. In all his well-travelled life, Watson had never before known of any feeling like that of being so in love with, and so well loved by, Sherlock Holmes. 

**

Holmes disappeared for most of the day. His farewell out the door had been sparse, with only a good-bye and a promise that he’d return after dinnertime, so Watson did not know to where the man went. It was almost certainly for a case. In any event, Watson did not mind. He never minded. He only wanted to support Holmes in everything that the beautiful gentleman did. 

Besides, it wasn’t as if the very roots of the earth had been shaken by the events of that morning. Life would continue as it always had.

Yet Watson was trying very hard to keep himself distracted from a growing anxiety. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he had alienated Holmes with his romantic affection. At the very least, Watson should have confessed the truth of his feelings on his own, perhaps in a gradual manner so to not overwhelm Holmes, or maybe he could have hidden himself better.

But he should have known already, that to hide from the great Holmes was impossible.

What would Holmes do now? How would things change? Watson didn’t know if anything would change at all. Although Holmes had said he would be Watson’s lover, Watson didn’t believe Holmes understood what that meant. Watson hoped that Holmes would still trust him after all was said and done, if nothing else.

Regardless, there was nothing more he could do about it at the moment. The sun had long ago fallen below the horizon. The pen in his hand and his journal in the other would have to occupy his attention until whatever moment Holmes decided to return. Of course, this day’s events would stay out of his memoirs. He wrote nostalgically about their most recent case, conducted with the help of Holmes’s brother. Watson suspected that one Diogenes Club had also had some involvement in the case, but he had no evidence, so he kept his suspicions out of his account. There had been that lean, dark-eyed man from Scotland Yard as well, a true exemplar of justice. Those fellows had been very cordial to Watson. It wouldn’t hurt to write them a simple hello.

“Watson!”

Watson stopped writing. He hadn’t even known how well this distracting nonsense had been working to keep his anxiety down until just this moment.

Holmes virtually floated into the living room, still well dressed and with the same top hat he’d taken when he’d left. Holmes set his hat aside, and stood very deliberately behind Watson. “If you are not too busy,” he entreated patiently.

Watson, who was more tightly strung than even Holmes’s precious violin across the room, couldn’t form a smart word. He set his distractions down, and though he hesitated, he did turn and face his friend.

Yet too quickly Holmes held Watson’s head securely to his abdomen, to comfort him. “It’s all right,” Holmes said in a hushed voice. “Don’t be nervous.”

Watson just barely kept himself from shaking. What had given him away this time? He could feel that his heart was racing.

In contrast to the electricity sparking the doctor’s overtaxed nerves, Holmes’s voice swept sweetly through him. “Be at ease, my dear Watson.” The warmth of the man’s body was inexplicably comforting to bask in. 

Watson might never be able to admit in good conscience how nice it felt to be held so tightly by Holmes. It was too selfish a thing, and he felt acutely that his masculine body was not at all well suited for his similarly masculine Holmes. Still, Watson wanted so badly to forget everything but the kindness and strength that was tempting him into feelings of peace.

Holmes was not an indulger in the occult, or a caster of arcane spells. Holmes was a magical beast all his own. He had a natural power that defied convention and order. No mantra was needed for Holmes to pull Watson under, into his own fantastic world of intrigue and love.

“In the future,” Holmes murmured to him, “I want to be the one who makes you happy.”

Swallowing nervously, Watson modestly began, “Holmes—” 

“But at present,” Holmes continued with a sadder tone, “I’m afraid that I am about to offend you, and for that I am deeply sorry.”

Watson froze. All this worrying over himself, and he had entirely missed Holmes’s distress. Suddenly their positions seemed wrong. It should be Watson holding Holmes in a comforting embrace. “That’s impossible,” the doctor said while sitting straighter. “You can’t offend me. What’s the matter, Holmes?”

The hug around him squeezed more tightly. “I have violated your trust in me. With a shamefully blatant lie, in fact.”

Oh, no. Dark feelings gripped Watson’s soul as his thoughts instantly turned to what Holmes had said earlier that day, about returning Watson’s romantic sentiments. Humiliation was not the worst of it. It was guilt that came upon Watson, to have put his dearest companion in such a position. His childish crush had compelled the great and noble Holmes to lie. Watson ought to have been content with friendship. Maybe he could still be. Even so, the blissful warmth holding him mocked this platonic determination, but still he would try to set things back to normal. “It’s quite all right. This absurdity is all my fault. I never meant to make you uncomfortable.”

“Have you deduced my lie?”

“I believe so.”

Oddly, Holmes sounded fascinated and excited. “What was it?”

Watson pulled away right then from the detective. It was painful to even think the words, and even more so to feel the heat of the man whom he could not feel in good conscience. Watson closed his eyes, which were starting to burn. “You’re not in love with me. I am sorry. I have made a mess between us. I never should have let things come this far.”

The air changed around them. It became weighty, and dire. Holmes’s manner adopted such gravity, and it only made Watson feel even worse. “How could you think…? My dear, lovely Watson, come with me at once!” He pulled Watson up. He didn’t let go of him for an instant. 

It was nice that Holmes still liked him, at least, but Watson was too sad to pay much heed to what Holmes was doing with him now. That was, until he saw that Holmes was pulling him to Holmes’s own bedroom. “Holmes?” He sighed. “You don’t have to sleep with me again, if that’s what this is about. I swear it was platonic. I never meant to disgrace you. Holmes, I ought to leave you now. I am a fool.”

Without warning, Holmes closed the door. He took each of Watson’s wrists, and pinned him against the wall.

Stunned, Watson stared at Holmes.

“If you would be so kind as to allow me?” The detective gently inched forward, scanned the top of Watson’s body with flicks of his eyes, and kissed Watson on the forehead.

Watson nearly whined. Holmes was so sweet. Holmes still cared for him so much, eve n after all the shame Watson had wrought upon them both. Holmes still desired association with him.

“My beautiful Watson,” Holmes breathed hotly against Watson’s ear. “Stay with me, I beg you, please stay.” The doctor blushed when he felt himself being nuzzled, as Holmes murmured into his skin. “Be mine, stay near me. I need you.”

What was Holmes doing now? This didn’t seem very platonic at all. Watson was shocked. He wanted very much to be held by Holmes, but not if Holmes did not want him. “I’d love nothing more, if you did return my feelings. But you do not, and I won’t leave you because of it. I will remain a true friend, if that is what you need.”

“No!” Distress marked Holmes’s features. “That is not enough anymore.” 

“What? Holmes, I promise you, this isn’t necessary. Please, do not exert yourself in this way for my benefit! I am content to stay here with you. All can be as it was between us.”

“No, Watson, you are mistaken! I was in earnest when I promised you my soul in all parts. To say that I am in love with you would not be lie. Quite the contrary! No, my deception is of a very different character.” Holmes’s voice, like its owner, was thoughtful and attentive. “The truth is, when you presupposed me to be something inhuman, you were correct.”

Watson listened as best he could, though he could hardly believe what he was hearing, and it was somewhat difficult to concentrate when they were this close together.

Holmes continued, speaking softly. “Heed my warning. I did not misspeak. I truly am a beast, no better than a common animal.”

“Nonsense!” The objection was spontaneous. Watson thought the world of his friend, and he did not wish to allow Holmes to feel that he was anything less than a full and proper gentleman.

“Listen to me, Watson. It is the truth. I am a beast, in every sense, and if you only knew what manner of creature I can become because of it, you might not tolerate my nearness to you. It is in my nature, I confess, to draw energy from the one I desire, to express my affections by putting him at ease in the most vulgar fashion.”

“This isn’t true, Holmes,” Watson said, with sympathy for his confused friend. “How can you be so convinced that you are monster? And one that draws energy from another? You make it sound as if you are a vampire!”

“Not a vampire, no, but in some respects, not very different from one.”

“Holmes! This becomes absurd! You are no way like a vampire. You are a sweet, brilliant man. If you do not feel and express love in precisely the same manner that other men do, then you are not less than them for it,” Watson murmured. “Even if you were a beast, that would make no difference to me. You are my dear Holmes, and I will gladly love you in whichever way suits you best.”

Holmes groaned. “Must you be so kind to me? How do I resist you, Watson?”

Watson’s heart skipped a beat. “I have never asked you to! Please, beast or no, desire or no, do as you wish with me, for God knows I long for anything you’ll give me.”

Though he had hoped for something, it still came as a great surprise to Watson when Holmes gently bit his ear.

A surge of pure bliss shot through Watson, from his ear straight down his spine to his groin. He gasped. Instantly most of his strength was sapped from him. Only the other man’s support kept him from falling. Consequently, Watson was left in a state of complete disarray, undone by the supernatural energy and skill of his best friend.

No, it could not be truly supernatural,  as Holmes had suggested; Holmes was not a beast. Even so, he was a magician in his own way. No black arts were required, when Holmes held such articulate mastery over Watson’s heart.

Holmes hummed with satisfaction. He nibbled the ear again, more softly. “How is this, Watson?”

“Incredible… Holmes…” The abrupt shocks of pleasure were lighter, and more widespread to the ends of Watson’s body, from which even more of his energy was drained, purely through the heady influence of the other man’s passion. He wanted Holmes to have him completely.

Watson whimpered helplessly, and became completely limp against Holmes. Whatever it was that was being done to him now , it felt incredible, and it left him throbbing and vulnerable, completely at his sorcerer’s mercy. He’d longed for Holmes for such a long time. This was so much, so fast. 

“I am an inhuman creature, very much unlike others of mankind who might be more fitting for you. I am selfish, and unreserved, and though I have attempted to leave my savage life behind me, I retain animal passion and powers, which even now I am using unfairly to my own advantage against you. I am a beast, a fraud among men. This is the entirety of my deception.” Holmes released Watson’s hands to comb tenderly through Watson’s hair, as his knee parted Watson’s legs and rubbed lightly against him. “Do you still want me, my dearest? After learning of all this?”

_My dearest._ Watson was so desperately in love that Holmes’s other words were drowned against the weight of those two words. He was not a genius like his friend, but all the strange things that Holmes had said could not diminish the years of self-sacrifice and friendship between them. Watson could not readily believe that Holmes was anything like a beast. He did believe that Holmes was a magically brilliant person, and that he wanted to belong to Holmes forever. “Yes,” he gasped weakly and urgently. “Yes, of course.”

The animal flaring inside Holmes burst out with dazzling vivacity. The light radiating from him was scintillating and self-sustaining. “My Watson.” Holmes’s hand raked down Watson’s back possessively, which felt far too good to him in his weakened state.

Watson cried out, “H-Holmes…”

There was a hot flicker in Holmes’s caring gaze. “Ah, am I too brutish? I beg your pardon.” Holmes stroked along Watson’s back, and Watson felt warm and brightened as the earth must feel underneath the shining sun. “But you already know that I would never hurt you, don’t you?” Holmes carried him effortlessly to his own bed, and laid him down. “Are you comfortable?”

Watson made an affirmative noise as he collapsed onto the soft, inviting bed. Some remorse came to him for being so unchivalrous in this fashion, but only some, for he was in Holmes’s realm, and everything was for Holmes to decide.

Holmes’s sure and steady hands were back on Watson’s arms, which were held above their heads. “My love.” With heartbreakingly slow fondness, Holmes kissed Watson.

The shivers that ran through Watson followed the fire that Holmes breathed into him. Watson’s innermost yearnings were smoked out. Tears poured down his face as he thought of the gentle bohemian soul above him. Poor Holmes, to so sincerely think himself a beast. Later, when Watson regained his faculties, he would explain to him that the Holmes he knew was kind, caring, and as human as any other—

A red, scaled, tail-like thing caught Watson’s eye. It was unfurled into the air from behind Holmes. It stretched once, and then descended, to curl around Watson’s hips. 

Bewilderment seized Watson. Could that scaled appendage really belong to Holmes? Had Holmes been telling the truth about what he was? To Watson’s surprise, the feelings of uncertainty and vulnerability inside of himself mixed darkly with his building arousal.

“Mine,” Holmes whispered passionately as he moved to nip lovingly and captivatingly at Watson’s ear again. That single word was as magically reassuring and thrilling as the iron grips on his limbs.

Watson didn’t completely understand, but he knew enough to know that he longed for Holmes, even now. It was all that he needed to know, at the moment. He was grateful that Holmes did not think less of him for enjoying Holmes’s control over him like this. 

The curious red tail pulled down Watson’s trousers and undergarment, leaving him exposed. Startled, Watson couldn’t help but wince. Yet he trusted Holmes always, even now. He hoped Holmes could sense his trust.

The kind detective smiled against Watson’s cheek. The kind tail wrapped around Watson and stroked him measuredly.

Watson moaned and wept. The feelings of relief and pleasure that filled him were incredible. The newfound knowledge that Holmes, in fact, had a tail, paled in comparison to the revelation that this much intimacy really was all right with Holmes. Holmes accepted him. Holmes wanted him. Watson was entirely within Holmes’s grasp and will, and for Watson there could be no superior state of affairs. 

“Mine,” Holmes said reverently. “My beautiful treasure.”

This closeness was paradise. Watson didn’t want it to end, but Holmes showed no signs of stopping, and Watson had wanted Holmes for too long. When Watson finally was too overwhelmed, he exhaled shakily and gave himself up to Holmes.

When he could again see the world, Watson tried to gesture that he wanted to return the kindness that Holmes had shown him.

Holmes clearly understood, but merely hugged around Watson, tail and all. Watson fell asleep soundly in the circling embrace, and it was as good and loving as Watson had so often imagined it would be. He was safely in Holmes’s hoard. 

He was where he’d always wanted to be.

**

The lightness of the sun’s rays and the music of a violin made for a glorious morning. Watson stretched in bed, and listened to the notes. Eager to see Holmes, Watson dressed eagerly, out of the soft sleepwear he didn’t remember putting on, and went to the living room with high spirits and without delay.

Holmes was there, playing his instrument by the window. His prodigious brother Mycroft was also there, leaning against the mantelpiece. “Dr Watson,” the tall man greeted properly.

“Mr Mycroft Holmes,” Watson returned cordially, but he was too giddy with happiness to adopt a more cordial manner. He was drawn toward Holmes like a magnet. “Good morning!”

Mycroft snickered. “So you two are indeed an item now.”

Watson halted. Reality hit him like a cold slap in the face to his merriment. He could not be with Holmes in a romantic way. At least, not in front of others. Mycroft could not be allowed to know. Yet clearly he’d just seen through Watson already. Watson had given away too much—

“Oh, look what you’ve done,” Holmes chided his brother. “You’ve frightened him. Tut tut. It’s all right, Watson, you have nothing to fear from Mycroft.” 

Mycroft stood up straighter. “I should add that it is only through my own resources and patience that your secrets remain secret, Sherlock.” 

Holmes shrugged. “As you wish.” His interest, always somewhat fleeting, quickly fixed itself upon Watson. “How was your sleep?” Holmes asked with a beguilingly cloying tone. “Did you have pleasant dreams?”

That was nice, though somewhat embarrassing, given the present company. “Quite well, thanks,” Watson replied with a blush and a scratch at his neck. 

“Ah, how touching,” Mycroft said, sounding unusually pleased. Apparently this situation was to his advantage, in one way or another.

Watson glanced between the two, and landed his gaze on Mycroft. “Excuse me, I do not mean to offend, but did you say for what purpose you came?”

“Simple. Sherlock is a dragon,” Mycroft said. “And now that you are aware of this, it is of the upmost importance that I make sure that you do not share this detail with anyone.” 

That wasn’t slang Watson was familiar with. “A dragon?”

The question annoyed Mycroft. “Sherlock…”

“By the Cross of Saint George!” Defensively, Holmes raised his finger and his voice. “I solemnly swear that I showed him my tail.”

“Oh! The tail!” Watson shouted at the new and startling clarity that came to him. He had finally remembered. “That’s right! You had a tail! My word! Then, you are a… dragon?” 

Holmes tilted his head, and smiled gently to him. Immediately, Watson calmed. It was amazing how easily Holmes could bewitch Watson’s heart.

“As I way saying, it was trouble enough for him to secure this situation,” Mycroft continued. “I don’t believe you are the sort to intentionally make trouble for my little brother, but one can never be too careful.”

But Holmes was no myth! He was a man! Watson still struggled to imagine otherwise. “Holmes… when you said that you are a beast… you meant that literally?”

“Through and through!” Holmes replied charismatically. “However, since I spend most of my time in the form of a man, it should not inconvenience you greatly.”

Watson didn’t understand, not really. Dragons were real? Had Holmes always been a dragon? What did it mean to be a dragon? Were they a species? If so, was Mycroft a dragon also? Perhaps that was why Mycroft was here now. Perhaps, in time, Watson would understand it all. Not today, however. Instead, he stood there wordlessly. Then, he laughed. He couldn’t stop laughing.

The joke was that it made absolutely no difference to him whether or not Holmes was a dragon. How could that detail matter to him now, mere hours after learning that Holmes loved him as much as he loved Holmes?

Holmes was charmed by Watson’s laughter. Fondly, he picked up his violin again and played his emotions on the strings.

Somehow, that made Watson unspeakably happy. Really, very little had changed. Watson had always been, and would always be, resolutely in love with his perfect unconventional gentleman. He was so happy, he felt like singing. So, like any man madly in love, he did, along with the music of Holmes’s emotions.

And, because he lacked the energy to leave so soon, or because he liked to see his brother in good cheer, or perhaps because Holmes and Watson made a splendid harmony, Mycroft lingered and listened contentedly.

End.


End file.
